Dial H for?
by Alan Strauss
Summary: When a small town reporter meets a young man claiming to know the origin of a rash of new superheroes, he expects a con. What he gets is the story of his life, although it may cost more than he's willing to pay. Inspired by DC Comics' Dial H for Hero.


"Dial H For…"

by Alan Strauss

I arrived at Tony's Diner fifteen minutes early. The place was quiet, as I expected it would be, and nearly empty but for the late-shift waitress and a few fellow nighthawks.

I took the booth in the far corner, like we'd agreed. Pictures of Jimmy Dean and Elvis decorated the wall. The waitress brought me a cup of coffee and a slice of lemon meringue pie.

Expecting nothing, I settled in to read the paper.

The front page article--not mine naturally--was titled: "Mystery Hero Rescues School Bus; Residents Express Gratitude." Pretty uplifting stuff, I guess, especially when sandwiched between smaller reports of tax hikes and police shootings.

If nothing else, all these new mystery heroes had done that much at least. Given us a little good news to report. Or it seemed like good news anyhow. I could never quite shake the feeling that it was really just more bad news with a glossy paint job.

"Man Pulls Child from Burning Building." Everyone reads that and feels great. What a heroic action, right? We seem to forget the tragedy that begat it. That building still burned down--peoples' homes, property, and maybe even lives were destroyed. An act of heroism didn't change that.

Or maybe, I admitted, I was just bitter. That was front page news and I was, well, page A6, "Local Bingo Hall Torn Down for New Rec-Center." That could change though. Especially if…

Well, yeah. Right.

I reminded myself not to get my hopes up and flipped to the Sports Section.

ooo

He arrived on time. I recognized him as soon as he came in. That's not because he'd given me a description or anything. He'd been careful not to, actually, unwilling to divulge anything more then a first name.

He was about five six, pale, skinny and not at all in shape. Glasses, scruffy beard, in need of a hair cut, wrinkled T-shirt and jeans. He walked into the Diner slightly slumped and his body posture said: don't notice me, I'm not here, I don't want trouble.

Sure, I thought, this is the guy. I recognized a crank when I saw one.

He made his way over to my table, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking wary.

"Are you, um…?"

"That's right," I said. "You're Mark?"

"Yeah. That's me."

"Sit down then."

He did and seemed relieved to get off his feet.

"I didn't think you'd show up."

"Hey," I said, "it's not often I get to meet a real life celebrity."

He eyes shined a little, as though primed to take offense. Nothing in my manner said I was goofing on him though. He gave a little nod of agreement.

"Yeah, that's true, I imagine."

I hid my smile and offered, casually, "Looks like the Generals got mopped up last night."

"Huh?" Confused.

"The game," I said, flicking the open page in front of me. "You read the paper?"

"Uh, no. Not usually." Annoyed now.

"Oh, I thought you might." A fan, I'd thought maybe, or who knows? "What made you contact me specifically?"

He shrugged. "No reason. You were the only reporter who responded to my phone calls."

That, no doubt, was true. The rest had real news to report and too much pride for this shit.

"Okay, kid. Might as well get down to it. Which of these mystery men are you claiming to be?" I produced a memo tablet from my coat pocket, flipping it open. There was a list of names on it--names my so-called colleagues had come up with--and I started rattling them off.

"The Trenchcoat? Captain Arrow? El Tora? The Skeleton Kid?"

He sat there silent and I glanced up. The same shiny look was in his eyes.

"Want me to keep going?"

"No," he said. "You don't have to. They're all me."

I slowly closed the tablet and grinned. "Really now. You're awful busy aren't you?"

He shrugged.

"How'd you come up with so many fancy costumes? Got your own tailor?"

That was me being petty, I suppose, getting a few digs in. It was not so much that he'd wasted my time--there was plenty to spare--but that he'd failed to even make up an interesting story. He could have picked a name and ran with it, but this? Not even a good effort.

"Well," he answered, after an awkward minute. "I guess you could say that. This is where I get them. This is what gave me the costumes, and the powers."

Mark reached into the back pocket of his jeans and slapped a golden disc down on the tabletop.

"This is what makes me a hero."

I glanced at the gadget clutched in his hand. It could have been anything as far as I knew. Some kid's portable video game or Ipod as like as not.

Still it was enough to make me say:

"Okay. Tell me about it then."

So he did.

ooo

I found it--the dialer--stuck in a sewer grate. I know that doesn't sound very dramatic or whatever, but that's the truth. It's my least favorite part of the story. Doesn't sound like it belongs, you know?

I was working as a bagger at the Dollamart and it was my break hour. Boss had been riding my ass all day, pissed because I'd showed up late for my shift. Ten fucking minutes. Big deal, you'd think, right? Guy was a real prick like that though.

Anyhow, I went out back of the store to have a smoke and I sort of saw this thing out of the corner of my eye. Catching the sun and glinting a little. I walked over and there was the dialer laying in the middle of back lot, caught between the bars of the drainage grate.

It didn't look like much to me. A round disk with some buttons and numbers on it. I figured it was a kid's toy, even thought about leaving it there. Something made me pick it up though.

It's weird too. As soon as I picked it up, I like sort of felt something, you know? I don't how to explain. It just felt important somehow. I must have just stood there staring at it for a full minute or two, or at least until the ash of my cigarette dropped onto my shirt.

Figuring my break was about up, I stuffed it into my back pocket and didn't think anymore of it. At least not until I got home.

For the last couple months after moving out of my parents' place, I'd been staying with my girlfriend Stevie. We use to get along real good back in high school. It was sort of fucked up now though. Seemed like we were always arguing--she figured I should be out looking for a better job or something, like they were just out there waiting to be got. As though she didn't know better. Her working the nightshift at Happy Burger.

It was pretty depressing. I mean, things didn't seem the way they were supposed to, you know? I'd always pictured myself as something bigger, maybe a movie director or a manager of some business or whatever. In fact, I knew I was meant for bigger things. I didn't know how or why I'd gotten stuck here.

Which sounds stupid now, of course. It's pretty obvious why. If I hadn't been where I was when I was, I never would have found the dialer. I never would have done all the great things I've done since.

Once I got home, I took a shower and, when I stepped out of the bathroom, Stevie had the dialer in her hands. She was like that--would just go through my stuff whenever. No respect at all. Figured it was her right because it was her place, even though I helped pay the rent.

"What is this thing?"

"I don't know," I told her. "I found it."

"You found it," Stevie said, like she already didn't believe me.

"Yeah. Out back of the store."

"What's it do?"

"I don't know yet."

Walking over, I managed to snatch it out of her hands. For the first time, I gave the buttons a serious look. They had all sorts of numbers and weird symbols on them--well, just take a look, you can see what I mean. I didn't have a clue what they meant.

"I hope you didn't waste money on that piece of shit," Stevie said. It was more like an accusation then a question.

"I told you," I said, pushing randomly on the buttons, "I found it out back of the store. Probably some kid's toy or something. Maybe it needs batteries."

I shook the dialer and flipped it over, looking for a cover as I headed to the kitchen. There were some Double As in the cupboard drawers. Stevie followed close behind me, equal parts suspicious and curious.

We didn't get far when the back entrance was smashed in. It was just a flimsy screen door and we kept it open during the daytime to cool the house down. Someone just kicked it and--WHAM--it came right off the hinges.

Three men in ski masks crowded into the kitchen. They were armed, mostly with pistols, though one of them had a little Mach 9. That's a type of submachine gun. They started threatening us and herded us back into the living room. Everything was like a blur at that point.

They had us kneel down in front of the couch. Stevie was bawling and I was terrified out of my mind. They proceeded to tear up the house, going through every drawer and closet they could find.

One of them, the ringleader I guess, kept asking me where we kept our valuables. Valuables, in this place, you know? I kept telling him there wasn't anything but he wouldn't believe me. He jammed the gun up against Stevie's head and said:

"You better start cooperating or I'm gonna blow this bitch's brains on to the wall."

Now I was like crying. I'm not afraid to admit that. At the time, I really thought I was going to die. The man slapped me with the gun, bloodying my nose.

"I ain't fucking around with you much longer! You better say something worth hearing and fast!"

And then--it was weird--I suddenly felt different somehow. Stronger, less scared, like my wits had returned. The man grabbed my shirt and yanked me forward so that he could jab his pistol in my eye. My shirt ripped, and exposed another shirt beneath it. One I'd never seen before.

The thug paused and stared at it too. It was bright yellow and fit me like a glove. Except it wasn't me it fit, or at least it didn't look like me. My muscles were abnormally large and well-defined--huge pecs, a six pack and everything. I looked like a body builder.

"Get off me," I said in an unfamiliar voice as I shoved him back. He didn't just move a few inches either, but a few feet. He smashed into the opposite wall, cracking the drywall. When he tried to scramble back to his feet, eyes white with fear and his gun ready, I raised my own hand, palm forward.

An arc of flame leapt across the room and engulfed my attacker. He screamed, thrashed into the window drapes, and fell in a burning, tangled pile on the floor.

His friends opened fire.

I figured that was it. The bullets--coming at me in staccato bursts from the Mach 9--hit my body in several places at once, but didn't seem to do any damage. They just bounced off of me.

So I raised my hands twice more and the other two robbers burst into flames as well.

"Holy shit," I said, glancing down at my smoking fingers, at my body in its weird yellow suit. What the hell was going on?

At this point, I realized there wasn't enough time to figure it out. In the process of stopping the attackers, I'd set most of the living room on fire. It was filling with smoke and my eyes were starting to burn. "C'mon," I said, turning to Stevie, "We need to get out of here."

Stevie didn't hear me though. She lay face down on the living room floor in a pool of blood. A stray round or two must have hit her, maybe while they were ricocheting off of me. I immediately dropped to my knees and tried to revive her, shaking her body and telling her to get up. As far as I could tell, she wasn't breathing.

By this time, the smoke was real bad. My lungs were burning. I began to cough uncontrollably and couldn't see through the acrid tears in my eyes.

You gotta understand, I would have pulled her out of there if I could have. You have to know I would have done that if at all possible. As it is, I barely managed to get myself out. I stumbled onto the driveway and collapsed in the front lawn

The whole house came down behind me.

ooo

Mark stopped talking and stared at the tabletop. He was visibly shaken.

The waitress chose that moment to approach.

"Hey, honey," she said to him. "Can I get you something?"

I said: "Why don't you bring us a couple burgers and an of order of fries?"

"Sure thing."

Mark glanced up, eyeing the waitress suspiciously. "No, thanks," he mumbled. "I didn't bring any cash."

Just by the look of him, I got the idea he hadn't ate in quite awhile. The thought struck me that I should just call the whole charade off right now, but I was intrigued, or maybe just bored. I wanted to hear the end of it. It turns out he'd invented quite a story for me, after all.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "And could I get a coke for him?"

"No problem." The waitress looked once at Mark, then smiled tiredly at me and left us.

"So," I said, once she was gone, "you want to tell me the rest now or…?"

Mark seemed to consider. He squeezed the dialer--or whatever it was--under his hand, before nodding.

"Yeah," he said, "Yeah, I think so. Although there's not much more to it…"

Of course, I didn't wait around for the cops and emergency crews to arrive. There wasn't any way I could explain it. I didn't even know what had happened myself. I just dragged my body up from the front lawn and wandered out into the night.

You probably wonder how I could do that after nearly being suffocated? The thing is it didn't seem to take long for me to get better--it never does with the dialer. Injuries just seem to heal up on their own.

By the time I made it to Fairfax Park, I felt fine. There was no sign I'd been in a fire, except for the soot on my face and arms. By this point my body had also returned to its normal state, no more muscles or any of that. The costume was gone too, leaving just my torn and stained clothes.

I sat down on a bench and tried to explain to myself what had happened. I ran everything over in my head but none of it made sense. How could it you, you know?

I was about to give myself up for crazy--turn myself into the cops I guess--when I felt something in my back pocket. It was the dialer. The smooth, shiny gold disk with the weird buttons and numbers. I didn't remember putting it there, but things had been awful confusing back at the house.

I sat there and looked at it, sort of numb. For some reason it struck me funny. Out of everything, this was the only thing I'd managed to rescue from my burning house. The thing that didn't belong in the first place. I pushed a few of the buttons and sighed.

This time it happened right away. I felt a sort of tingling and looked down to see my body had changed. I was taller, lithe and muscular, and covered head to toe in a blue body suit with white piping. The gold disk had done it, I realized, the dialer was somehow making me into these costumed things.

No more then a few seconds passed before I heard sirens. They were coming from a block away. It was a natural inclination to check it out. No sooner had the thought entered my brain then I was moving at unnatural speed. I covered the ground from the park to the intersection--about five miles or so--in a few seconds.

There had been a big accident, I saw. A delivery truck had apparently wiped while making a sharp right turn and toppled into oncoming traffic. Several cars were tipped over and lying on their sides. People were screaming and I could smell the odor of gas.

And, then, well, I just did it. You know? Like something out of a movie or comic book. I was everywhere at once. Clearing the streets, pulling people out of their wrecked cars, redirecting traffic to safer areas. I must have saved a dozen lives, easy, that night. No way the rescue teams would have gotten there in time without me.

I made the next morning's paper or at least my alter ego had--they called him the Blue Blur. And it was pretty clear to me after that what I had to do, you know?

I was a hero now, not like normal people. Not anymore. The dialer had made me a hero.

And it seemed right somehow…

ooo

I remembered the article alright. The Blue Blur--stupid name, I'd thought--had made a big splash in all the locals. Then all the other mystery men had followed after that.

Mark told me more too. In fact, I made him relate all of them--Flight 505, the train derailing, the October Riots, the school bus with the brake shortage yesterday. Or at least the ones that I could recall. He obliged me, and not once did his details differ in any way from my notes.

Could he have faked all that? Sure, I thought, it was possible. He could have pored through the news reports at the library. Put this story of his together and memorized it after several days of rehearsal.

Somehow though, I wasn't confident that was the case. A cold feeling had settled into my gut. The idea he might be telling the truth wasn't what put it there either. It was something else, another thread that weaved its way through his story.

"To be honest," Mark said. "It's the best thing that ever happened to me. It's made me a better person, a real somebody, you know? I do something good for people now."

"And you're hoping to get what out of it?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Why are telling me this? Why blow your cover?"

"I just think people should know, that's all. Considering all I've done for them, all the sacrifices I've made, they should at least know my name."

"Gonna be rich and famous, huh?"

"I don't care about money. But they should know my name. It's only fair."

I remembered back to twenty some years ago when I'd just started this job. I always had the idea in the back of my mind that my name would make it big. It would be me making those big headliners, me publishing my own op-eds and books. It hadn't worked out that way though.

Of course this story could still change that. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

"Anything else, hon?"

The waitress had brought the burgers to our table and sat the plates in front of us.

"Huh?" I said, just noticing her.

"I said: anything else?"

"Oh, no. We're good…"

She rolled her eyes and headed back over to the front counter. I turned back to Mark.

"Okay, say I believe you. Just for argument's sake. I need to ask you something else…"

He nodded. "I guess that's fine."

"In your stories, it seems kinda, I don't know, convenient that you're always nearby when these terrible things occur."

"I don't get what you mean."

"Well, take the car accident with that truck. How fortunate for everyone that you were within a block when it happened and not downtown somewhere, or at the hospital. Or when the bridge gave out last week, you managed to be right there to hold it together until the emergency teams arrived. Or that bank robbery in August, or…"

Mark frowned. He hadn't touched his food yet. "So?"

"So isn't that bizarre? That's a lot of coincidence all at once." I leaned forward in my seat. "I mean, tell me this--in any of these cases did you ever notice the disaster before you used the dialer or was it always after?"

"What would that matter?" The glassy look from earlier had returned to his eyes. His face had grown dark with suspicion.

"It matters," I said, "because what if the dialer is causing these things to happen?"

"That's ridiculous," he said with a laugh. It was a pretty empty laugh though.

"Think about it! Those thugs breaking into your house, the traffic accident, the fires, the disasters; these things don't just happen…"

"They happen all the time."

"But to one person? To one town? They're a million-to-one coincidences." I looked at him and said, in a very calm and serious tone. "What if whatever is giving you these powers is also causing these accidents and disasters? To give you a chance to be hero."

"No," he said, "I don't think so."

"But how do you know? Shouldn't we make sure? I think we should contact the authorities, maybe even STAR Labs in Metropolis…"

"So you don't want this story?" he said, slowly. "Is that it?"

"This is bigger then a story," I said, "This is-"

Mark held up hand suddenly and tilted his head. "Wait. Did you hear that?"

"I didn't hear anything, I-"

"Gunshots," he said. "It was gunshots."

I glanced over my shoulder to the door, to the other patrons. Nobody seem to have heard anything either. "There weren't any gunshots. Maybe it was just-"

By the time I looked back to Mark though, it was too late. He had already punched the dialer. His body began to change immediately, becoming larger and more toned, as his clothes morphed into a soft green and black body suit.

There was the sound of glass shattering behind us. I stood up just as somebody said:

"This is a robbery! Nobody fucking move!"

The warning came too late; I was already on my feet. I heard the sound of a shotgun blast and then I was sitting down again. My shirt grew hot and sticky as I slumped into the booth.

Mark, or whatever he was now, had tried to intervene, to place himself between me and the shooter. Somehow though, he had been just a little too slow. I tried to use the newspaper to slow my bleeding, but there was too much of it. The whole thing just came apart in one red, mushy pulp.

As my vision dimmed, I saw him charge into the gunmen, knocking the weapons from their hands and saving the other diners. It was right out of a movie alright, right out of a comic book.

We would, I suspected, both be making the front page tomorrow.

(Note: The Hero Dialer first appeared in DC Comics' _House of Mystery_ #156)


End file.
